Thankful Hearts
by Richonne Writing Network
Summary: She's looking for forever. Life has taught him forever isn't real. Can they find something in each other that they both can be thankful for? - A Richonne Writing Network Thanksgiving Collaboration
1. Act 1

Welcome to a new _**Richonne Writing Network**_ collaboration.

For those of you who may not know, the _RWN_ is a group where writers can come together for support and to collaborate on projects like this one.

Three amazing writers collaborated on this tasty and heartwarming Thanksgiving project: **tellyoscar** **, leeeel, and Chellepo1977.**

They put a lot of love and hard work into bringing you this story, so it would be **_amazing_** if you left some love for each of them in your reviews.

To find more works from these talented writers, go to our favorite authors section or check out their tumblr pages.

 _ **We hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

 **ACT 1**

 **written by: tellyoscar**

Michonne Daniels walked hastily down the busy streets maneuvering around other pedestrians who were all seemingly late for something as well. There was a time when the crowded streets, blaring horns and chaotic fragrances of the city was alien to her. These days she found herself appreciating the constant hustle and bustle.

"I think I've had a breakthrough today. An epiphany!"

Her old friend —and the only person she new in the city before moving— Sasha Williams, responded with a laugh. "Alright, let's hear it."

Michonne adjusted her cell phone, balancing it between her shoulder and ear as she attempted to open her umbrella to protect her hair from the wintry drizzling rain.

"Well, it probably doesn't count as an epiphany, since I didn't technically come up with it myself. Or does it?"

"Here we go again," Sasha responded with amused curiosity.

"Shush." Michonne stopped at what felt like the hundredth crosswalk since she left the subway. She glowered at the glowing red hand, warning her not to dart across the street. "These blind dates aren't working out for a reason. It's either I'm not meant to settle down or I'm looking too hard. It's like that old saying: You don't find love, love finds you."

In the past year, Michonne experienced various life changes. It started when she left her home state of Georgia, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous act, to seriously pursue her writing career.

New York City, her new home, was one of those capitals of culture where young writers and artists flock to display their ambition and "authenticity" with the high stimulus of the city as a backdrop.

Of course, in the current digital age Michonne knew there was no need to be physically present in a particular place to succeed as a writer, but the city gave her a focus that she enjoyed. It forced her to keep everything together and stirred her ambitious spirit.

All the unfamiliar things _—_ the cacophony of car horns, the overcrowded subways, the strange aromas _—_ propelled her in ways her suburban Georgia neighborhood didn't.

Life was dynamic and exciting.

Now, a year after her move, she had a contract with a well-known Publishing house and her first novel was in the final stages of the publishing process. Professional success came swifter and easier than she ever anticipated.

She couldn't say the same about her love life. It didn't help that she was now the frequent victim of blind dates that ranged from dull to disastrous.

She knew her friends and coworkers meant well, but was almost beginning to lose both interest and hope in her dating life.

"I'm still a hopeless romantic at heart, no matter how serious you claim I am," she continued. "There needs to be this...how do I explain this..."

"What? You believe in love at first sight now?"

"Of course not," Michonne laughed. "Everybody knows that's lust."

"Where is all this…" _—_ Sasha cleared her throat _—_ "philosophical talk coming from? Was Theodore really that bad?"

"You mean _T-Dog_?" Michonne stressed the man's preferred name. "And he wasn't _bad_ at all. There was just absolutely no connection. We had nothing in common and I don't think I could get used to seriously using that nickname. It only works if he's in the league of Snoop Doggy Dogg. He's not even a rapper, so what's the point of the name? He was really sweet though."

"Why are you even still on the phone with me, Michonne? You better not still be at home. I hope you're not standing your date up. He's seems like a nice guy. A little on the talkative side, but he's decent. He works for the law firm that represents the publishing house. Maybe you guys will click."

"I already told you I'm on my way," she said, glancing left and right, trying to remember if the street numbering goes up or down. "What's the address for this place again? These streets always confuse me. I should have taken an Uber, but nooo, I just had to convince myself that my sense of direction will guide me."

"He's gonna think you're standing him up. Hurry up woman!"

"I'm like five minutes late," Michonne defended. "Maybe ten. By the time he's properly seated, I'll be there. I'm a non-New Yorker. I haven't gotten completely used to following directions while on foot yet and it's so damn cold out here."

Sasha groaned. "Alright. I'm gonna hang up so you can actually get to this restaurant today. Call me when you get home. I'm kind of looking forward to hearing how this one goes."

Michonne spotted the glowing white three-dimensional lettering of _The Blueprint_ sign as she rounded the corner.

"Yeah later. I'm here."

She ducked out of the drizzling rain and slipped into the busy restaurant, glancing around at the full tables. There were couples sipping wine while chatting over their evening meal. There were families with their teenage children. She spotted a group of women having some kind of celebratory toast _—_ Perhaps for a birthday.

"Hi, welcome to _The Blueprint_. Do you have a reservation for tonight?" the hostess asked, tearing Michonne's gaze away from the bustling restaurant behind her.

"Uh yes. It's under…" She scrolled through her cell phone to find the text message with her date's full name. "Blake."

The woman smiled, beckoning for Michonne to follow her. "Right this way. The other party hasn't arrived yet."

This surprised her, but she was glad she was no longer the technically late one. She'll have more time to mentally prepare and it puts her at an advantage. "Okay."

Michonne made herself, comfortable at the table for two in the middle of the restaurant. She removed her jacket draping it over the back of her chair and adjusted the sleeves of her sweater dress. She then pulled out her phone to text her friend.

 **I'm early! He's not here yet.**

Her phone chimed, alerting her of Sasha's response, which was to simply tell her to relax and enjoy herself. She took a deep breath, reaching for the menu.

"Good evening," a rich, warm voice said, prompting her to look up at the man who stood before her. He had dark wavy hair and was dressed semi-casually, had a strong posture and appeared self-assured.

She offered a tentative smile, feeling much calmer now that she was face to face with her potential date. She noticed that his warm smile, which etched its way back into his face, reached his eyes. He was a handsome man and had a physical presence that made a breathtaking on-the-spot first impression.

"Brian?" she asked hopefully, her foot jittering against the floor.

His brow furrowed in confusion at the name before understanding crossed his face. "Uh, no." He pulled a notepad from the back pocket of his dark jeans. "I'm Rick. Just here to get your order, sorry."

"Oh I'm so sorry, I thought…"

"It's fine," he chuckled, shrugging off the awkward mix-up. "I should have introduced myself first." He leaned forward as if about to share a secret. "My waiting skills need a little sharpening. It's been a while. Don't tell anyone."

She winked. "You're good. I won't tell."

"I'll hold you to that. Anything I can get you while you wait for the real Brian?"

She glanced down at the drink menu and ordering a glass of the first red wine she saw. He nodded, scribbling on his notepad before slipping away with a promise of a swift return.

Michonne laughed softly, shaking her head at the whole interaction. She couldn't wait to tell Sasha about this one. She glanced back to the double doors where the waiter disappeared, hoping her date had a smile and voice at least half as nice as his.

She peered at the restaurant's entrance, searching for a man entering alone. As the minutes passed, she mostly saw couples, families and semi-large groups of people. She breathed a sigh of relief when she finally spotted the next potential prospect being led inside by the host. He looked to be somewhere in his thirties with dark hair and eyes. He was smartly dressed in an expensive tailored suit and seemed relatively normal.

As they approached her table, the man's mouth lifted into a smile. "Michonne?" He pronounced the last syllable like _Shawn_.

"Michonne," she corrected, stressing the ' _own'_ pronunciation as she held out her hand for him to shake. "You must be Brian. Nice to meet you."

His grip was too tight.

"The one and only," he grinned as he took a seat across from her. His over-applied cologne assaulted her nostrils. "You're as beautiful as described. So, Sasha told me you're a…" He paused, his toothy grin unwavering as if frozen in time.

"A writer." She put an end to his uncomfortably long pause when it was clear he didn't remember. "And you're a lawyer, right?"

He snapped his thumb and middle finger together. "That's right. Great memory! I actually do a lot of work in the literary world. I don't know if Sasha mentioned that. It's not easy, but I see myself as a success story. Lawyers run in the family, but I think I've done well to stand out."

"That's great," she smiled, happy that he was someone at least in her field. She was sure that it would make for some good conversation. "So do you sometimes do a bit of what a literary agent does?"

He smirked, waving a dismissive hand. "Yes, but better. I provide a lot more services than any typical non-lawyer out there can provide. As of late, I've been focused on more corporate stuff, but I won't bore you with the details. It might be above your range of understanding. It's boring, complicated law stuff that the average person wouldn't really understand."

"Oh, well I'd hate to be bored and confused," she said, her tone more sarcastic than she intended but he didn't seem to notice.

"So what about you? You're a beautiful woman, I'm sure you've inserted yourself in some interesting circles if we're acquainted with the same people. What did you write?" he asked, draping an arm across the back of his chair.

"Well…"

"Let me guess." He held up a hand, grinning as if he were about to burst into laughter. "Cheesy romance novel?"

She kept her expression neutral, barely fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "Close, but no…"

"I know how you ladies love your romance."

"I do like romance like other _ladies,_ and there _is_ an element of romance in the novel, but it mainly falls under the category of Science Fiction."

Brian's eyes were unfocused in the type of way that let her know his mind was elsewhere. His next words confirmed her suspicion.

"You know, I once represented a scientist in a patent litigation lawsuit." He clasped his hands in front his mouth. "I ended up winning that case by the way. There was a settlement and it worked in my guys favor. Anyway, he was always coming up with all these...inventions and I told him 'hey man, you could be one of those mad scientists that accidently start the apocalypse.'"

He snorted bursting out in boisterous laughter as if he had just heard the most brilliant joke ever told. A silver-haired woman at a nearby table glared at them in annoyance.

She laughed as a gesture of politeness, before moving the conversation along. "What kind of scientist was he?"

"I can't remember. I meet so many people, it's too hard to keep track of their personal details." He clapped his hands together as if he had a brilliant idea.

"What?"

"Maybe you can use that line in your next book. I just thought of the perfect storyline. It could be about a handsome, successful lawyer with a pretty girl on his arm, trying to stop an army of highly intelligent robots that are plotting to overthrow the humans. I promise, I won't sue you for taking that."

He winked, licking his paper-thin lips. She assumed it was meant to be smooth and sexy, but it came across uncomfortably awkward.

"Well somebody else might sue me. I'm pretty sure that's the plot of a movie I've seen."

The warm gravelly voice of their waiter interrupted Brian's next words and Michonne breathed a sigh of relief. "Told you I'd be back quickly," he said placing her glass of wine in front of her.

She glanced up at the handsome dark haired waiter as if she was drowning and he was her lifeline. She was barely five minutes into the date and was dreading where it was headed. At least T-Dog was sweet and down to earth, even though they had virtually nothing in common.

"See? I knew your waiting skills weren't that bad," she joked. "I didn't even have time to complain about where my drink was."

He winked. "The practice is paying off. Alright," he said pulling out his notepad. "You two ready to order?"

"Yes," Brian answered, just as Michonne said, "I'm still deciding."

She wanted to feel things out for a while longer, but it was clear she and Brian were lacking a certain spark. There was also something about him that irritated her.

Rick's eyes shifted between them, a half smile of amusement on his face. "That's fine. Take all the time you need. Anything to drink for you?" he asked Brian.

"We'll have a bottle of the Cabernet Sauvignon," Brian said, glancing up at Michonne who took a sip from her wine glass with an apologetic smile. "I can order for you. I have excellent taste." He leaned forward attempting to link his ankle with hers.

"That's okay, I'll keep looking." Michonne yanked her foot away—not wanting to play footsies— and opened the menu again. "Sometimes I'm picky."

Rick caught her eye, seemingly sensing the growing awkwardness at the table. "I'll be back soon. Thanks again for the constructive criticism."

"Anytime!" she called after him, reveling in their little inside joke.

"So, what else do you like to do outside work Brian? Any hidden talents?" she asked, attempting to steer the conversation in a more casual direction.

"Well, I'm a workaholic, but I love my time to unwind. I got into ventriloquism some years ago and it was the best decision I made. My mother says I'm the best she's ever seen. I perform sometimes and I would have brought Jack —he's my dummy— along, but I'm saving that party trick for the second date. I think he'll like you." He wiggled his eyebrows and for some reason that unsettled Michonne.

"Okay," was all she said, thankful that he didn't bring his puppet on their date.

"I enjoy sailing too. I learned from my dad. He's gone now, so I carry that on." He then launched into a very convoluted and overly personal story about his father's death and the younger man his mother remarried. Michonne tried to keep up, but lost him somewhere around the breathless slew of derogatory names he called his step-father as his pale face reddened.

"Thanksgiving's coming up soon. If things between us go well, you could be on my arm when I go to my family's place in Nantucket," he chuckled, giving her a lascivious wink.

"Oh…"

"I've never had trouble getting women of all kinds, so you know there'll be a lot of green eyed monsters."

Michonne smiled tightly, wondering what he meant by kind. "Right."

She knew of the stereotypical smooth talkative personality associated with lawyers. While Brian was quite loquacious, the conversation remained confusing, shallow, and heavily centered around his massive ego.

Brian clearly loved the sound of his own voice.

"Excuse me," Michonne said, holding up a finger, just as Brian was about to launch into another story about a previous case he won. She didn't wait for his response and promptly rose to her feet stalking away. She needed a break from the boring and difficult to follow stories.

She moved toward the other side of the restaurant in search of the ladies room where she planned to have a very strong word with Sasha.

She wandered through a set of double doors, expecting to find the restrooms and instead happened upon what appeared to be a lounge area. At first she had thought she entered a completely different restaurant, that was somehow connected to _The Blueprint_ for whatever reason _._ Then she noticed the sign indicating the lounge would be closed for the remainder of the month.

It looked like a good place for some privacy and the doors _were_ wide open. She looked over her shoulder, pushing the door just a bit so that passersby wouldn't notice her as she entered the dimly lit room.

"It's just a quick phone call," she mumbled to herself, rationalizing what she was doing as she made her way over to the bar next to the long glass windows.

Sasha picked up on the third ring.

"Don't tell me it's over already."

"No," she whisper-yelled. "But I wish it was. He's boring and weird. I need an escape plan. Where the hell did you find this guy?"

"He's your bosses' lawyer!"

"I need to get out of here. Should I fake an emergency? Help me out here! He has some deep-seated issues. He wanted to introduce me to his puppet!"

"His what? Is that a euphemism?"

"The lounge is closed until December." The voice behind her startled her, causing her to jump and let out a high pitched shriek in surprise.

"You scared me," she said looking up at Rick, the handsome waiter. "I'm sorry. I was looking for a little privacy and the door was open."

He studied her carefully, his eyes boring into hers as if he were reading the pages of her soul. He pushed off the door strolling further into the room.

"My fault," he said, waving off her apology. "I forgot to close the doors when I left."

"Yeah, they were wide open. I thought this would be okay."

"Must be something important, if you left…" He pointed over his shoulder, referring to Brian.

"It is."

His lips curved into a smile. "And are you still deciding what to order?"

"I'm actually avoiding my date," she admitted in defeat, sighing heavily. "I think I might have impossible standards."

He nodded toward the phone she clutched tightly in her hand. "So...something urgent is going to come up to put an end to it?"

She hit the end button, cutting off Sasha's distant questioning voice. She'd have to figure her own way out of this one.

"Yeah, I was planning for a hysterical phone call when I got back to my table. Maybe some Oscar-worthy acting."

He found that hilarious, throwing his head back in laugher. "Well since we're making confessions, I'm actually here to avoid everything out there for a few minutes...or hours. It's been a long day." He offered her a smile. "You're welcome to join me and practice that acting."

"Your boss probably won't be happy if you're caught not doing your job. Brian is probably waiting for his steak." She noticed he wasn't dressed like the other waiters. He wore dark jeans, a light blue button down and a navy blue sports jacket. It was easy to mistake him for another patron.

"I already served your date and I'm guessing you're not ordering anything anytime soon," he said with a wide grin. His deep blue eyes shined with mirth. She noticed he had a slight southern twang. "It looked a little tense back there."

She surmised that he wasn't the type that liked to follow rules. He must have been used to getting away with doing what he wants around here.

"Not unless I can take the food to go. I've heard enough boring TMI stories for the night…" she took a step toward one of the lounge chairs. "I'll stick around here for a while, if you don't mind."

"I don't," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "But, since you're sticking around, can I have a name?"

"It's Michonne."

"Michonne," he repeated, the baritone of his voice reverberating through the room _—_ and Michonne's bones. The way her name rolled off his tongue had her involuntarily sucking in a breath. "I'm Rick Grimes, in case you forgot from earlier."

"Well I didn't get a last name earlier, but it's nice to properly meet you Rick Grimes."

"So…" he plopped down in the chair across from her, leaning forward. "What did the _real Brian_ do to scare you off? You don't like _iRobot_?"

She raised a brow, trying not to laugh at his nickname for her date. "Were you eavesdropping on my date, Rick Grimes?"

"Wow, full name and all? I thought that was part of the job description. I told you I'm still sharpening my skills," he jokingly defended.

"Well it's not the best conversation I've had," she said carefully as she sank down into the comfortable chair behind her. "I'm not sure if you can even call it that. I'll just tell him that it was nice meeting him, but it's never gonna work. I'm not interested."

Rick's mouth formed into a slow building smile. "Harsh, but straight to the point...I like it. A straight shooter."

She tapped the side of her face, thinking. "But then what if he doesn't take it well."

Rick scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "Tough luck. Real Brian will figure out a way to get over it. Bad dates happen."

"You know this from experience?"

He barked out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. "There's a good reason I don't do blind dates. I once had a date who showed up drunk, puked all over me and proceeded to cry, and I mean loud bawling, about her ex-husband moving on with a new woman. I had to ride the subway home covered in puke stains. Luckily, this is New York, so that's not too unusual."

She joined in with his laughter. "Okay that's actually pretty bad. You win."

"Don't give up hope yet," he advised with that warm smile of his that originally drew her in.

"I can't say I haven't had a lot of...interesting experiences since I've been living here. I take them as they come."

"Not from around here?"

"No, I'm a Georgia girl," she said. "I've been here for about a year or so. I moved here for work."

"What a coincidence," he grinned. "Georgia guy here. What do you do?"

"I'm a writer."

"Journalist?"

"No, mostly fiction, but from time to time you can do that in journalism as well," she quipped.

He chuckled, keeping steady eye contact with her. There was a certain intensity in his eyes that made her skin feel overheated and for some reason she couldn't tear her eyes away. It was as if he casted a hypnotic spell and trapped her in his gaze.

"So, do you do more short pieces or novels…"

"Uh I actually just finished my first novel." The words still felt a little foreign on her lips. She was still in awe of how well everything worked out for her since her move. Sometimes she felt as if speaking of it would make it all disappear.

"Oh what about?"

She laughed, feeling like a spotlight in the shape of his eyes was on her. "You ask a lot of questions Mr. Grimes," she said keeping her tone light and teasing.

"It's not everyday I get to chat up with a newly published author. You never know, you might become one of my favorites and I might want my copy of the book autographed. I need to get on your good side," he joked. "Now, what's the book about? Give me your ten second pitch." His brow furrowed. "Is that what they call it?"

"Yeah." She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

"Okay...Basically it's a story set in a futuristic dystopian society where greed, inequality and man made damages to the environment have led to a global societal collapse. It sort of plays with the idea of what happens to humanity if we are led by those without the capacity to love selflessly."

"That's really good. What's your last name Michonne?" he asked, standing up and walking across the room. For a moment, Michonne thought he was going back to work and her heart squeezed, not wanting him to leave just yet. Instead, he stopped at the wooden counter of the bar. "Coffee?"

"Sure." She would be up late working on her current manuscript anyway. She figured she might as well get some caffeine in her system.

"Your last name?" he asked again, once he was behind the counter.

Michonne bit her lip, studying his expression carefully. "Daniels. Why?"

"How else am I going to find your books?" He said it as if it was the most obvious explanation in the world. "Michonne Daniels."

She strolled toward the ceiling to floor windows looking out to the bustling streets of the city that never sleeps. "Well I'm glad at least one person other than Sasha will read it."

She watched as a couple walked past the window stopping to share a kiss under their shared umbrella. The sugary sweet moment looked like something out of a movie adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

She turned away, looking back to Rick. "You know why this part of the restaurant is closed for the month? It's pretty cozy. I'd get a lot of work done, sitting by this window or even out front."

"You think so?" he asked as he placed two mugs on the counter. "It was recently remodeled and redecorated. Since it was already shut down, I figured why not December. Plus the staff is a little short right now. That's why I had to step in to give them a hand tonight."

His explanation surprised her since she was under the impression that he was a waiter. "Wait a minute. You don't work here?"

"I do. I'm here every day making sure this place runs smoothly, but sometimes a guy needs a break." He opened his arms, giving her a pointed look. "Hence why I'm in here."

"You're not a waiter," she said, connecting the dots. "This is your restaurant?" That explained his clothing that was so dissimilar to the other waiters in their black shirts with _The Blueprint_ written on the side.

Rick rubbed the back of his neck, looking around as if seeing the place for the first time. "Yeah. It's a always been a dream of mine and fortunately, I was able to see it through."

"Well it looks like you're doing a pretty good job for yourself," she commented. "It's packed out there."

"Dinner rush is usually like that. It'll start to slow down around nine."

"It's a shame I didn't get to try anything on the menu."

He held up the coffee pot before filling both mugs. "I make great coffee, so you get to try that. Bet you didn't think you'd be sitting at a bar counter drinking coffee when you started your day."

"Definitely not, but I like a little spontaneity." She grabbed one as she sat down on one of the bar stools. "Thanks."

"I should be thanking _you_ for being great company."

"Am I though? I feel like I've been the only one talking about myself," she said. "Tell me about you. Where in Georgia are you from?"

"It's a small place called King County. You probably haven't heard of it."

"I haven't," she confirmed, pressing her lips together in amusement.

A grin spread across his face. "See? In any case, I'm basically a New Yorker now. I've been here for years and most of the time, I love it here."

"So do I. There was an adjustment period, but I grew to love it," she shared, taking a sip of her coffee. It was as good as he promised and exactly how she took it. "So why did you move here?" she asked. "You said you've lived here a long time."

"I came for culinary school and ended up staying. I wanted more than the small town restaurant, so that kept me here all these years I guess. For now, someone else heads the responsibility for cooking the meals though. I still draw up the menus and recipes."

"And this happened," Michonne added, waving a hand at the big empty room. "It probably wasn't easy."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "It wasn't. I basically failed my way here."

Michonne listened intently as he told her the story of how _The Blueprint_ got started. His first failed attempt at a restaurant was due to bad location and his underestimation of the difficulties that came with being a business owner. While working under one of New York's most iconic chefs, he took some much needed advice and made a list of goals and a plan.

That was where _The Blueprint's_ name came from.

"I think part of him just really wanted to get rid of me," he joked, referring to his mentor.

"I bet he's really proud."

"I think he is," he said. "But he'll never admit it in those words. I prefer it that way though."

Conversation came easily between them and they found that while they were different in many ways _—_ her love for jazz and his inexplicable fondness for country music for example _—_ they shared many commonalities.

"Uh...Rick?" A young woman was standing in the doorway. Neither one had heard her when she lightly pushed the door open and stepped into their room-sized bubble.

"Rosita." He offered Michonne an apologetic look before walking toward the woman.

"Morgan is looking for you," she said, her eyes bouncing from Michonne to him and back again, probably wondering why they were laughing over coffee in the temporarily closed lounge. "There's an issue with scheduling and Carol has to leave early. There's a family emergency or something."

"Alright, I'll be right there."

"I'd better get back to my date," she said, stepping around him. She'd lost count of the amount of time that passed since she decided to stay with Rick for a while, but she hoped it was long enough to end her blind date. "Maybe I'll come back again and actually sit down and try the food."

"I'll hold you to that," he said, with a half-smirk. "Remember, I still need to get my copy of the book autographed."

"I'll keep that in mind." She wanted to see him again. She felt an undeniable attraction to him. The kind she was hoping for as she waited for Brian earlier that evening. However, for all she knew, Rick probably thought of their evening as nothing more than a friendly conversation with a stranger.

When she glanced back at him a final time, the look in his eyes told her that was definitely not the case.


	2. Act 2

_Welcome Back_!

Here is the Act 2 in this collaboration brought to you by _**tellyoscar**_ , _ **leeeel**_ , and _**Chellepo1977**_.

They put a lot of love and hard work into bringing you this story, so it would be amazing if you left some love for them in your reviews.

To find more works from these talented writers, go to our favorite authors section or check out their tumblr pages.

* * *

 **ACT 2**

 **written by: leeeel**

For his operation to run smoothly, Rick learned the importance of motivating each and every one of his employees. Without their top-notch performances, the success of his venture would've long been in the toilet. So, day in and day out, night after night, shift after shift, he needed to sell his vision. That together—him and his team—they were all a part of something special.

And it wasn't enough for him to talk the talk. No. They had to witness him walk the walk.

Observe how to run the house.

And tonight was no different.

"Hey, watch it!"

An hour into the dinner service, Rick darted out from the bustling kitchen towards the frontline. A perfectly cooked catfish platter, clutched in his hand for the special guest on table number five. His body twisted expertly, avoiding a full on collision with Noah James, the newest addition to his team.

"Sorry boss," said the twenty-something year old server. "Didn't see you coming."

"Don't apologize," Rick instructed, "Just keep your eyes peeled and keep moving. Grab the crudité ticket for table seven."

"Yes boss. I'm on it."

Two seconds later, Rick presented the golden fried dish to the latest blonde pop sensation, who managed to grace his establishment with her presence. As expected, she _ooh'd_ and _ah'd_ over the juicy flavor and the crispy texture of Morgan's authentic Southern creation.

He smiled. Living the restaurant life was fun. In the beginning.

Like countless other dining proprietors, he used to get a high from the excitement of preparing and presenting happiness in the form of exquisite dining.

However, over the years, that had changed. The initial glamour was, quickly superseded, by the grueling tasks involved in making a success of your business. By the dedication. By the striving for optimum performance.

On top of the constant maintenance to ensure a safe and clean environment, there's the pressure to build clientele, to stay fresh and relevant, to compete with newcomers without losing quality, to be consistent.

"Now if there's anything else that you need," Rick said, with a gracious smile, "just holler, and myself or my manager, Mr. Rovia, would be sure to accommodate you to the best of our abilities."

As Mr. Rovia appeared at his side to fawn over the young songstress, Rick stole a glance across to table number thirteen. His gaze landed on a much more intriguing patron.

Michonne.

From twenty feet away, he could feel his pulse in his throat. He remembered, in that moment when he'd first started having chemical reactions from merely seeing her.

Last winter probably. On the patio during lunch.

The Monday after that blind date from hell, when she came back and asked him to join her for a cup of coffee.

When he secretly watched her. As she sat in the lounge. Alone, deep in thought working through the draft of her second novel.

That was the day he started having those chemical reactions. Started having certain thoughts. And dreams.

With his eyes on her, she suddenly looked up, and their gaze connected. She angled her face away from her date, whose attention seemed to be submerged in his own meal, and gave Rick a beseeching look. She was miserable.

Rick cocked his head to the side, stifling a laugh. He lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug, but knew soon enough she'd save herself.

Even after he'd made his way over to the bar next to the lounge, he continued to observe Michonne on yet another lousy date. He was timing her. He was mentally predicting what was going on in her head from afar, reading her body language.

He absorbed her piece by piece. Inch by inch.

He eyed her legs. Long and sleek. The left one, draped over her right knee. Her black pumps dangling on her toes as she leaned back in her chair, unimpressed.

Cerave body lotion was her go to to keep her limbs moistened and silky to the touch.

To maintain the shapeliness, it took two hours a day, three days a week at Dave's Hardcore gym located around the corner from where she lived.

But she liked to swim.

She _used_ to swim.

Till her senior year, in high school.

But the anxiety of being on the varsity team killed her love for the sport, and since then she'd quit.

Rick scrubbed his jaw, realizing how much this woman, over the past several months, had become somewhat of an obsession. This incredible, passionate, and smart woman. Thoughts of her consumed him. Seeing her engaged with other men made him, quite frankly a little bit unhinged.

When was the last time he'd felt anything like that?

Honestly, he'd grown accustomed to just going through the motions, day after day, adding brick after brick to the wall safeguarding his heart.

But somehow, _she_ slipped in.

Past his defenses.

How?

Nobody ever got to him like that.

Nobody ever got him to laugh like she had. It was humbling.

Not only had she inspired him to expand his horizons, but Michonne's fervor for life and knowledge and truth also challenged him to second guess his own deep rooted perceptions. To be adventurous. To take risks, like listening more often to the business suggestions offered by his manager and his chef, and not continuing to withstand the pressure of running the restaurant by himself.

Tonight, Michonne was wearing her favorite pink dress. The one with the tiny black belt.

It was Rick's favorite, too. Because it was provocative. Yet reserved. Elegant. Classy. Like her.

Today, was a bit of a crap day. Despite his best efforts at being efficient, it always surprised him how multiple things could suddenly go wrong, causing everyone around him to lose their shit. Like the loss of a cook due to an emergency. It wasn't much, but still, it had him beat.

So for a rogue moment, he imagined what it would be like to run his hands over the front of Michonne's dress. Slip off those silver buttons, and explore what Miss Perfect wore underneath.

Arms folded, her perceptive gaze had long since diverted from the clueless idiot sitting across from her at the table. Instead, her attentions remained glued to the untouched glass of white wine, which the douchebag took the liberty to order on her behalf.

How many times had she casually checked her watch? How many times had she fidgeted with her hair? From her smirks, her tight smiles, Rick knows within another ten minutes, she's outta there.

Rick sat on a stool and gave Tyreese, his bartender, the signal. "One vodka martini. Wet. Shaken, not stirred. Straight up with a twist."

With his right hand Tyreese grabbed a bottle of vodka, with his left he found a one-ounce jigger and a mixing glass. "Lemon or olives this time boss?" he asked.

"Olives."

"Another five minutes?"

"No, let's give her ten."

Tyreese chuckled and shook his head. "Just ask her out already. You two are ridiculous."

"Beg your pardon Ty?" Rick shifted in his seat. "No offense, but think you should mind your own business."

"I have been. For the past year." Tyreese braced both hands on the bar top and leaned forward. "You, my friend, need to step up your game."

Rick dipped his chin, dodging the pitying look coming from his employee and close bud. Ever since he'd met Michonne, she became a regular. Sometimes with dates, or friends, or even co-workers. Sometimes she'd drop in by herself for lunch. Hide out at the bar, or in a secluded corner of the lounge and work on her novel.

Tyreese sighed, "Yes boss," and gave a hesitating nod. "One dirty martini, coming right up."

Fulfilling Rick's expectations, within the next few minutes Michonne came flitting across to the bar. Her familiar perfume announcing her arrival before he laid his eyes on her.

"Azeem Obode," she said to him and sat down. With a broad smile of gratitude, she accepted the murky looking drink Tyreese slid across the counter. She took a quick gulp. "Oh, this is good. Thank you Ty, I needed this."

"Let me guess, another lawyer?" Rick asked, sipping his bourbon.

"Doctor. Thirty-three year old excelling in his chosen field of cardiovascular surgery. He's made quite a name for himself at Mount Sinai."

"Sounds like you hit the jackpot."

She rolled her eyes. "He's the youngest of a large, _large_ family, has just over half a dozen nieces and nephews, who all claim he's their favorite Uncle of course, and he owns a three-bedroom house upstate where he spends his weekends and off days all by his lonesome."

"All in all…"

She wrinkled her nose. "Not my type."

"Why set your standards so low?" Rick responded, with a slight smirk, "Not even worth your time."

She offered him a one-shouldered shrug. "Agreed. But, what can I say? He was persistent."

"Ah," Rick raised a brow. "So you felt sorry for him."

"I felt sorry for him."

"Understandable. How kind of you. Guys like that—rich, handsome, family oriented—they often get the short stick in this world."

She smiled a wicked smile. "Reprehensible, I know. Life's so unfair."

Rick bit his bottom lip trying to contain his grin. God, she's gorgeous.

"Least you got in your good deed for the month." He held up his bourbon and they clinked their glasses together. "Although now, now you've gotten his hopes up. How's the guy to recover?"

"I'm sure he'll figure something out." She nodded over to a voluptuous woman who approached his table. Salient interest clear in her bright eyes. The goodly doctor stood and allowed his hands to wander as he drew the familiar acquaintance into a lingering embrace.

Rick chuckled and shook his head at the flirtations, aware that they themselves were just as guilty of less than honorable behavior. "Well then, tell me. What exactly is your type?"

"Being ambitious and a bit cocky is fine, but having a big heart, believing in others' potential, is a turn on as well." Her gaze dipped to the bartop. "Tough on the outside, soft on the inside. Brown hair, blue eyes, a scruffy beard. Knows his way around the kitchen. Know anyone like that?"

He swiveled in his seat. His knees purposely pressed against her thigh. She didn't move.

"Someone who holds my attentions," she breathed, "And Doctor Obode, as accomplished as he is, just couldn't cut it, you know? He wouldn't stop talking."

Through the fabric of her dress Rick could feel her heat. "Maybe the guy was nervous. You have that effect."

She arched her brow. "I do?"

"Goes with the territory of being a beautiful woman. With a terrific smile."

She blushed, considering his words whilst stirring her drink.

"Look at that," he said, after a few seconds, "I've rendered you speechless."

"It's a skill."

"It is. A new one, thank you very much." Rick found himself grinning like a lovesick jackass. Her good humor was infectious.

She leaned in. Her deep-set eyes pinned him so bold and direct. And like always, made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room. "And what other skills do you possess, Mr. Grimes?"

Her gaze held his with a daring look. God, she smelled good. Rick's throat damn near closed-up as a torrent of blood rushed through him.

Jesus.

Now he was the one at a loss for words. She laughed, apparently coming to the same conclusion.

"Okay, here's the deal," she said, straightening her posture. Her hands clasped together in her lap. "I'm just gonna say it. How long have I been coming here? On dates, to grab a cup of coffee, to do some writing?"

"Months."

"Right. Months. I spend most of it with you, don't I? So, here's my proposal. We—you and I— should go out. On a date."

He nodded, despite the hammering in his chest. "We should. When?"

"Now." Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "I know just the place."

"Now? I've got work, Michonne. Can't just up and leave, they need me."

"Oh, c'mon. This place will not fall apart if you're not here for an hour or two."

"An hour or two?" Not to be misunderstood, Rick loved his job. He loved working for himself. _The Blueprint_ was his life.

She sighed. "Rick, it'll be fun. Promise. Please? Pretty-pretty please?"

"Alright." He shook his head at her, not believing how easily she'd convinced him to abandon his restaurant, his haven, for some spontaneous date. What's more, he can't believe how much he's actually looking forward to it.

It was a bit sleazy but she went and dismissed her date, saying that she's sorry but this isn't going to work for her. Bye!

XXXX

Michonne led Rick to catch the A train up to 116th Street, Harlem. After a half hour ride underground, they emerged from the metro station into the cool October night air. Two blocks down Frederick Douglass boulevard, they made a right when they approached 118th street.

"This is it," she said, and came to a stop.

Rick looked up at the old cream-colored brick building. Black burglar proof covered all of the windows, and at the top of the first floor was a bright neon sign with multicolored music notes, the letters of which were at an angle, suggesting they were dancing to the smooth rhythms seeping out, from inside the club. "Right here?"

"Yeah. You ready?"

He looked back at the corner. He'd noticed attached to the building, a blue sign that said _Cecil_. Behind Michonne, the door to the establishment opened. As a party of four exited, a burnt orange glow filtered out. "Mmm, now that you ask, I'm not so sure. Feels like you're luring me to the slaughter."

She chuckled and reached for his hand. "Oh shush. Just trust me."

"I'm here, aren't I?" He toyed with the hair loose at her neck. "And it's not because I'm secretly pining for bebop jazz music."

She laughed again. Her smile vibrant with excitement, her face glowing under the golden streetlight. Before he could stop himself, Rick reached out for her arm and dragged her close.

With the gap between them extinct, her hands glided up the raised lapels of his jacket, and she cupped his jaw. "So, Rick Grimes, our first date. Finally."

Her warm breath puffed into his face when her chin tilted towards him. Through her trench coat, her heat, her lean, delicate curves pressed into his body, and Rick's heart pounded. Like he'd plunged off of a cliff.

Blindfolded.

Because just like that, she's in. Another barrier crossed like it was nothing. Like she simply took a dainty step, over a puddle of mud, and fit herself inside that old heart of his.

How? How is this happening?

To him? Why him? Why now?

Rick had promised himself that he wouldn't risk caring for anyone like this again. Keeping his distance from others, was the best solution to avoid being hurt in that way _again._ But the time spent with Michonne was making him question that decision. Even back in the subway car, as he watched her trace the map on the wall, showing him how many stops it'll take for them to reach their destination, he kept telling himself that he should be working. But he never turned back. He didn't want to disappoint her. He wanted to please her. That simple revelation in that moment, sent a jolt through his system.

His eyes narrowed as he took the liberty to graze her skin. From the curve of her cheek, down towards the outskirts of her bottom lip. Beautiful. Remarkable. Radiant.

Under the majestic lights, fit for royalty, and in between the seductive shadows, fit for lovers, Rick was inspired to seize the moment. He watched her eyes, self-possessed, yet receptive and willing, and he brought his face nearer as she waited in anticipation.

"Rick."

On the breath of his name, he kissed her. His hands slid to her waist, tightening their grip over that belt. And although he squeezed her body against his, the swipe of his lips was cautious and light. This offering of hers was merely a taste. An introduction. He knew that. Even as she slipped her hot tongue into his mouth for a teasing moment.

Heaven help him, but it was way better than he'd imagined. A shock-wave of pure delight.

He nipped on her plump bottom lip, caressed her nose with the side of his, breathing her in and, thank god, she smiled. Giving him life. He wanted this introduction to last longer, but instead Rick drew back, breaking their connection and they both opened their eyes. Dazed.

"You're something else," he said, "you know that?"

"Same goes for you, cowboy." She tugged on his arms, "Come on, let's continue this inside."

XXXX

Minton's Playhouse was a trendy club, with an interesting mixed crowd, and an upscale menu, Rick observed as they entered the scene. The joint sported mustard yellow furnishings, to compliment the brown wooden panels and floors, and proudly displayed black and white portraits of jazz music icons.

The resulting atmosphere was warm and inviting. Even for persons such as himself who were not blues enthusiasts.

"How come just the one kid?" Michonne asked after they were seated and given menus.

Next to her, Rick leaned back into the comfortable couch and perused the southern-inspired dishes. If the meals tasted as good as they sounded, the selection could give his restaurant a run for its money.

"For a while, we were happy with just the one," he replied. "Carl was everything. In time though, I did mention having more, once we were both settled in our careers. But then things quickly fell apart."

"I'm sorry." She slipped off her jacket and bundled it to her other side.

"Nah, it was a long time coming. I was surprised we lasted like we did. I mean I took a chance, despite knowing better."

"Knowing better?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, nothing lasts forever. Not even love. If there was one thing my life has taught me is that love, while wonderful and magical and all that, it's only for a moment. Fleeting."

"I beg to differ."

"Of course you do. You've had a charmed existence."

Her brows hiked up. "Says the white American male to the black American female," she chuckled.

His thoughtless statement brought a flame to his cheeks. "That's not what I meant."

"Mmhm. And besides," she continued before he could defend himself, "you know about the trauma my sisters and I suffered, losing our parents how we did, when we were young."

"Yeah, I remember. Except, you got claimed out of the system. I didn't."

She tilted her head to the side with curiosity. "What you're trying to say is…"

Rick rubbed the back of his neck. He needed to tread lightly.

What was he trying to say?

That being bounced around from foster home to foster home, for the majority of his childhood, meant there weren't many people with whom he'd formed close bonds? That aside from his ex-wife, and Carl, his son, he found it terrifying to open up to anyone?

His eyes lowered to the napkin his fingers fumbled with. "You know what, forget it. I don't want to talk about that."

She sat back, and he glimpsed at her. She was staring at him blankly. He groaned within himself because he understood she was genuinely trying to get him to confide in her; about his life, his childhood. She wanted a deeper connection, but the memories were too painful for him, and he couldn't.

Michonne looped her arm through his after they'd received their drinks, and the waiter took their orders.

"Well," she sighed, looking thoughtful, "you're wrong about love being fleeting. Having your son, Carl, _is_ evidence of that. Your love for him, and his for you, will never die. So…you're wrong. And if you're talking about marriage, my grandparents' example taught me that it takes more than just love, it takes a lot of forgiveness, compromise, and a shitload of hard work."

He shook his head. "You have to want that, Michonne. To work at it. She didn't."

She squeezed his arm. "Okay. Next time it'll be better. It could be."

It could, he thought to himself surveying her hopeful eyes. But then again..."I may be a stubborn man, but I'm not a sucker for pain." He downed his drink, and called for another whiskey, needing to feel the burn.

As they listened to the musicians tell a story with their instruments, he crossed another barrier. Cupping his hand over her tummy, strumming the tiny buckle of that belt, he bravely dispelled any doubt she may have had about his attraction towards her.

Michonne shifted closer, and placed her chin on his shoulder. "Rick Grimes, nothing is impossible for a willing heart. You shouldn't sell yourself short."

"Am I?" He looked down at her beautiful face.

So goddamn beautiful.

Inside and out.

It was embarrassing how much he enjoyed staring at her. "No. It isn't so simple." He felt a fear rising in him, and he said no more.

She also went silent, and he watched her as she lost herself in the soulful music. Michonne was smart, and ambitious, and gorgeous. Simply put, Michonne was a star. A goddamn shooting star.

Whereas Rick? He's the furthest thing from, for so many reasons.

Since his days as a child he knew he was damaged goods. Why else would his mother choose to dump him at a bus stop when he was only seven? Why would his wife decide after a mere six years of marriage he wasn't worth the effort? He was flawed. And reckless. Callous, and unkind. But he was good at pretending, and sooner or later Michonne too would come to the realization of how unworthy he was of her affections. So why rush the inevitable?

She deserved better. She deserved the real deal.

The band took a five, just as their meals were presented.

"It's true," Michonne said, picking up her fork, "we haven't known each other that long. But I feel like I know you well enough to see that you're choosing to hold back. Maybe it's because you think I can't handle who you truly are. But I can. I _want_ to know more."

Lowering his head, he sagged against the backrest and closed his eyes for a few moments. He took in a deep breath before he faced her. "It's just it's better this way, for me to be realistic. To take things one step at a time."

She reached up and stroked the edge of his jaw with her finger. "Just live for the moment?"

"Yeah. And enjoy it, like being here with you, now. I'm glad you brought me to this place, Michonne, so let's not ruin it." He raised her hand to his lips and gave it a little kiss. It had been so long since he'd dared to have these feelings, since he dared to love. But at the same time, he preferred not to raise either of their expectations.

"Sure," she said. "Okay." Her voice was airy with nonchalance. However, there was no mistaking the dimness of disappointment which clouded her expression.

The mood shifted. And after sitting together, sharing a meal in withdrawn silence for a few minutes, to Rick's utter surprise, Michonne suddenly got up, and excused herself. Bathroom was the only word he heard fumbled off of her lips.

XXXX

As Michonne's meeting wrapped up, with both her new editor and the marketing department, at Jinkies Publishing Press, Michonne realized with much remorse that she'd hardly heard a word of what was said. The pertinent discussion could not, for the moment, sustain her interest. Rather than focus on the discourse surrounding future campaigns to advertise her upcoming novel, her thoughts and feelings were still fettered to the previous night's events.

It was one date, she thought, as she walked down to the lobby, through the revolving doors, and onto the crowded streets of downtown Brooklyn. She really shouldn't make a big deal about how it ended.

Still, it wouldn't make sense to pursue another social engagement, now would it. Not when Rick clearly had doubts about building a lasting relationship. She felt stupid, for not seeing the obvious—the reason why he'd never asked her out in the first place. Despite their palpable attraction, despite their many conversations and stolen moments, Rick was only interested in keeping things casual.

Unfortunately, there was nothing casual about the way she felt about him.

Nothing casual at all about that kiss.

And definitely nothing casual about the magnetic spell his heated stares trapped her in.

Which made her sad.

Because something about their connection was telling her in her heart, that they could possibly draw closer. That they could be more, than just friends.

Unless her instincts were all wrong.

"How does that sound?"

Michonne came to a halt and stared at the woman who had been strolling beside her since she'd left the building.

Ms. Dickinson. Her new associate editor.

Right. They were to go over the notes made on Michonne's last two chapters of her new project. What was she saying?

Michonne squinted against the sun. "Sorry?"

"I said, darling, how does that sound?" The well-dressed professional removed her shades and placed them on top of her head. "Lunch? At _the Blueprint_? I'm famished."

Michonne swallowed the bitterness forming at the back of her throat. "Sure." She wasn't up to seeing Rick again; at least, not yet. Nonetheless, anything to make the new team member happy, including enduring a potentially awkward encounter and embarrassing herself.

Once they entered the restaurant, however, Michonne breathed a sigh of notable relief. Rick was thankfully nowhere to be seen; neither by the bar, nor in the main dining area.

But then, just as the two women were seated, Ms. Dickinson made an unexpected inquiry. She wanted to know, whether or not, the owner was available for a little chat.

"Mr. Grimes? Well he's busy in his office in the back," said the smiling young waitress. "But I could get him for you, if you really need to see him."

"Oh, I do!" Ms. Dickinson said and opened her menu, "I have heard such great things about this place. Michonne, what's good?"

In an effort to conceal her confusion, Michonne highlighted a few options, praised the dishes she thought were the restaurant's best, and raved about the citywide popularity enjoyed by the Southern-born chef.

"My-my," her new co-worker pursed her thin lips, "Sasha did tell me you were a regular here. That's why I thought it a good idea we should pay this place a visit, as we spend a little one on one time getting to know each other better." She sipped from her glass of water. "That, and well—"

"Lori?"

Both Michonne's and Ms. Dickinson's attentions were snatched across the dining area.

Ms. Dickinson smiled. "My ex-husband happens to own this establishment." She rose from her seat as he approached their table. "Rick! So wonderful to see you."

From his incredulous stare and gaped mouth, Rick was equally dumbfounded by the scene as Michonne was, whose own stomach had bottomed out.

Michonne blinked at him. "Hey," she whispered, the greeting choked out on a breath.

"Hey." His eyes narrowed, glancing back and forth between her and Ms. Dickinson. "Uh, what's going on?"

His ex-wife leaned in, and kissed him on his cheek. "Remember that new job I was telling you about? Well, surprise! I got it."

Michonne closed her menu and signaled her sever. "Think I'll have just a dirty Martini," she yelled. "And keep 'em coming."

Well. Surprise, indeed.


	3. Act 3

Here is the Act 3 and the final chapter in this collaboration brought to you by _**tellyoscar**_ , _ **leeeel**_ , and _**Chellepo1977**_.

As a reminder, these lovely ladies put a lot of love and hard work into bringing you this story, so it would be amazing if you left some love for them in your reviews.

The ladies would like to express how much of a privilege it was to collaborate with each other and how much they _**loved** _entertaining the you, the Richonne fandom. Thank you to everyone!

To find more works from these talented writers, go to our favorite authors section or check out their tumblr pages.

* * *

 **ACT 3**

 **written by: chellepo1977**

If it wasn't for bad luck, Michonne was sure she'd have none at all. There was no other way to explain the disaster movie that was her love life. In the weeks after that painfully awkward lunch, she oscillated between lamenting the fact that the first genuinely good man she found was emotionally unavailable, and cursing the revelation that her new editor just happened to be the ex-wife partially responsible for it. It was a small world even in a city like New York.

She hadn't seen Rick or set foot in _The Blueprint_ since that day. Their only contact had been a text she sent him on the way home from that lunch and one too many dirty martini's, explaining that they were looking for different things and suggesting that with Lori's added complication, they should just quit while they were ahead. He'd agreed, and that was that.

Still, she missed him; his pretty blue eyes, his scruffy face, his soft lips, and his easy drawl that reminded her of home. It was over before they even got started and while she regretted that, it had to be for the best. Now, if she could just forget about him and the way he made her feel.

Somewhere in the third week post Rick, Sasha started bringing up this food critic for the _New Yorker_ she'd met at some charity event the weekend before. Michonne knew the pattern. Sasha would mention meeting a guy, then she would drop tidbits of information about him for a few days like a trail of breadcrumbs until she actively started trying to set up a blind date. Eventually, Sasha would get tired of waiting for her to take the hint and come right out and ask if she could go ahead and set things up.

That's how she ended up agreeing to meet Negan MacLeod for a date. Learning from her need to come up with an exit strategy for her dates one time too many, she'd recommended meeting for drinks at _Cork_ ; a trendy wine bar close to her apartment. Drinks meant she could be home before 8pm if Negan was like all her other dates; and based on her track record and the fact that she still couldn't stop thinking about a certain pair of blue eyes, her expectations were almost nonexistent.

She wasn't sure if it was because the bar was set so low, but wine with Negan was actually fun. He was tall, with a cocky grin and matching attitude, but he seemed genuine enough. He talked about himself a lot, but he was equally interested in hearing all about her. Most of all he made her laugh, and after the last month, she appreciated that more than anything.

They were having enough of a good time over drinks, that when he mentioned a restaurant nearby that he was late in reviewing and playfully begged her to, "help me mix a little business with pleasure", she'd happily agreed. They walked a few blocks; talking and laughing so much that she didn't realize her own special brand of bad luck had kicked in until they were standing right in front of _The Blueprint_.

She'd hesitated outside the door just long enough for Negan to notice, but he must've assumed she was just playing coy because he grabbed her hand and pulled her inside right along with him. Her head was on a swivel as they waited at the host station to be seated; praying that Rick was in the back that night while a part of her wanted to see him. They made it all the way to their table and were perusing their menus when she finally saw him, and her breath caught in her throat.

He was standing near the lounge, seemingly frozen in time with his wide cerulean eyes trained on their table. Instead of the collared shirt and blazer she'd usually seen him in, he was wearing a chef's coat and it suited him even more than his corporate look did. Her mouth turned to cotton and she wasn't sure if it was because of the immense amount of sexiness he was projecting, or because of how guilty she felt about being on a date in his restaurant.

He must've realized he'd been caught staring because he quickly diverted his eyes to the floor. There was another pause as she watched his shoulders drop for just a second before he gave her a final, longing look before disappearing into the lounge.

She was on her feet excusing herself to the ladies room before she really had a chance to think about it, and she was across the dining room before she even knew what she'd say. She found him leaning back against the bar with his eyes squeezed shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You should take something for that headache," she commented.

He jerked his attention towards her and after a beat, gestured to the empty shot glass sitting on the bar and said, "I already did."

There was an awkward pause as they just observed each other and she struggled with what to say. She finally went with, "How are you?"

"Oh, you know...busy. I actually need to get back in the kitchen," he said, trying to walk past her to escape but she reached out for his arm to stop him.

"I didn't know we were coming here," she began; needing him to know that she wasn't the type of person who would do something like that.

He shook his head, refusing to meet her eye. "It's none of my business," he said, stepping to the side intending to go around her, but she continued to stand in his way. He had to know that she wasn't cruel enough to bring a date to his place after what happened between them. Even if it was just a lot of flirting, one date, and one beautiful kiss.

"It's a blind date. He's a restaurant critic and he mentioned a place he was overdue reviewing. I didn't know he meant here until we were standing outside," she explained, without pausing to take a breath. She always babbled when she was nervous. "I need you to know I wouldn't do that."

He shoulders sagged before he finally dragged his eyes up to meet hers and they were dark with what looked like regret. "I know you're not, but even if you were, I'd deserve it," he rasped, his voice wavering.

He looked and sounded like a man at war with himself and it made her sad to see him like that.

"Rick," she breathed, but he quickly dodged past her before she could say anything else. He faced her with his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Look, I need to get back to work. What happened with us…was for the best. You were right. It's complicated. My ex is your editor. You're looking for a husband and I'm not ready for that."

"I'm not trying to get married tomorrow," she argued; never wanting to be less right for the first time in her life.

He cocked his head to one side and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I know that. It's just that…I don't know if I'll ever be ready."

She stared at him in silence because what could she really say to that? She was looking for something that at least had the potential to be a forever thing and he couldn't promise her that. She should've been grateful for his honesty but instead she was devastated by it.

He cleared his throat and kept talking. "Your date is probably wondering where you are. It was good seeing you, Michonne." It sounded so formal; so different from the comfortable way he used to talk to her that it stung.

He pushed through the door that led to the kitchen, and she took a moment to collect herself before heading back over to the table where her date was waiting. His lips curved into a playful grin as she approached the table and took her seat.

"Have I told you how gorgeous you are in that dress?"

She was suddenly not in the mood for Negan's flirting, and she responded with a tight smile and picked up her menu.

"Only about a half dozen times," she answered.

Negan kept grinning at her. "Well, it needs repeating. Red is definitely your color." He was being nice, and he didn't deserve the foul mood she was in. It took conscious effort, but by the time their dinner arrived, the easy conversation between them was going strong again.

Currently, he was droning on and on about a trip he'd taken to Thailand, and under different circumstances, she would've found it all very interesting. Negan was charming and a great conversationalist, but there was no spark. She used to be more practical than that. Sparks had always been something she'd relegated to the realms of romance novels. The man currently hiding from her in the kitchen changed all that though. Now that she completely understood what it was, she needed the spark.

If their date had happened a month ago, she would've had absolutely nothing to complain about. But it wasn't a month ago, and by the time their plates were cleared, she knew she wasn't going to see Negan again.

"So...you wanna head back to my place after this?" Her date asked, his slightly slurred voice pulling her out of her thoughts. She focused in on him completely, a little surprised at his sleepy eyes and slow grin. She hadn't kept track of the whiskey sours he'd been throwing back, but whatever the number, it was too many.

She shook her head and answered, "I have an early day tomorrow."

He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and chuckled, "I thought we were having fun."

"We were, but I think you've had enough fun for the both of us," she said, looking around for Rosita and their bill.

He draped his arm across the back of her chair and she gasped when he pulled it close enough to butt right up next to his, effectively caging her between himself and the wall.

"Let's keep having fun, Chonne. I've been thinking about having those legs of yours wrapped around me all night," he whispered, and she shivered when his fingertips brushed against her collarbone.

"Negan…"

Everything that happened next was a blur. Negan slid his other hand across her body and grabbed her high on her thigh; his fingers dipping beneath the hem of her skirt as he squeezed. Her lips were parted to unleash the fury he'd ignited within her, but just as she shifted to remove his wandering hand from her body, he was snatched out of his chair with enough force that it shook the table and startled both of them.

The dining room went silent, and she looked up to find Negan pinned against the wall by Rick's forearm to his throat. His eyes were like blue flames; threatening to incinerate anything in their view.

"You think you can put your hands on her?" He growled, leaning into Negan until he was gasping for air.

"Take it easy! We're just having a good time." Negan's ridiculous explanation seemed to only infuriate Rick more and he tilted his head to the side as he leaned in harder against Negan.

"Women don't tend to flinch when they wanna be touched, asshole." Rick's harsh words and Negan's coughing shook Michonne out of her daze and she glanced around the room, realizing that every eye in the restaurant was trained on the scene they were creating. Even Tyreese and Jesus were standing on high alert and, from the looks on their faces, they'd never seen their boss as close to the edge as he was.

She forced her attention back to Rick and Negan's steadily reddening face. She had to do something before things went too far, so she rushed to her feet and placed a hand on Rick's shoulder.

"Rick, you have to let him go," she begged, more for Rick's sake than Negan's. "He's not worth this."

She held her breath for the long moment where he seemed to consider what she'd said, until he finally blinked out of his rage. His eyes darted around the room, almost like he was reminding himself of where he was. When they finally landed on her, the fire still hadn't gone out, but it was joined by a bit of shame.

He finally relented; closing his eyes and shoving himself away from a coughing and gasping Negan.

"Get out." The order was no louder than a whisper, but from Rick's glare, it was an order she hoped was quickly obeyed.

She stiffened when Negan's eyes landed on her and the almost sickening lust had been replaced by an equal amount of disdain.

"Goddamn it! Thank you for finally deciding to call off your dog," he said, his voice like sandpaper from the pressure he'd endured against his throat. There was still a hint of nastiness there, so almost being choked out hadn't changed his attitude at all.

Before she could respond, Rick stepped in front of her with his arms folded over his chest. Even though he'd tapped down his anger, it still charged the atmosphere all around him; ready to ignite if Negan made one wrong move.

His voice came out low and commanding as he gritted, "Don't talk to her. Don't even look at her. In fact, it's probably a good idea to forget you ever laid eyes on her."

Negan grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and turned to leave, but he paused and focused in on Rick one last time. His lips curled into a sinister grin.

"Rick Grimes, huh? You own this place don't you?"

"I do," Rick replied, and Michonne cringed when she remembered why she and Negan had ended up at _The Blueprint_ in the first place.

Negan chuckled, "Look out for my review of this place in the _New Yorker_. I hope that piece of ass is worth losing your restaurant."

A choir of gasps rose from everyone in the room when Rick's fist connected with Negan's jaw, and sent him crumbling against the wall with a thud.

"Rick!" She shouted, grabbing his arm and using most of her strength to hold him back from delivering another blow; delaying him long enough for Tyreese and Jesus to come pull Negan to his feet and escort him out.

Rick's eyes followed the three of them until they were outside and once they were gone, he finally turned around to face her for the first time.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and asked, "Are you ok?"

She nodded, "Thank you for stepping in."

He looked down at her like there was more he wanted to say but just as she started to hope he'd changed his mind about them, he jerked his hands away from her like he'd been burned.

"Yeah, it's not a problem," he said, running his hand over his face. "You said that guy is a restaurant critic for the New Yorker, right?"

"He is," she confirmed, unable to hide her disappointment at his shift in demeanor.

He shook his head and laughed bitterly, "I guess I need to brace for impact then."

"I'm sorry," she began, but he returned his focus to her and shook his head.

"Listen, it's not your fault," he said, and his tone left no room for argument. He continued, "I need to go help Jesus with damage control. Make sure Ty sees you out to the taxi."

She watched as he walked around the dining room trying to help his rattled customers settle back down. He had a good reason, but something in her bones screamed that he was running away again and there was nothing she could do about it.

A headache pricked at the edges of her consciousness and she rubbed at her temples. Even if he didn't know it, he'd shown his cards. No matter how complicated their situation was, she was certain he cared about her just as much as she cared about him.

 **XXX**

Whenever things got a little too crazy, Rick retreated to the kitchen at _The Blueprint_ where he could lose himself in creating something for people to enjoy. When he was cooking, nothing mattered besides the dish and the dish had to be perfect. Making sure the flavor and the presentation was up to his exacting standards, left little time for overthinking anything else. He'd been in the kitchen more in the last month than he had been in the whole last year, and so much in the last week that Morgan was threatening to give him back the head chef title.

When he was cooking, he wasn't thinking about the one-star review in the New Yorker, or the falling reservation numbers that translated to fewer receipts. Cooking meant he didn't have time to miss seeing Michonne sitting at the end of the bar, pretending to work while waiting for him to come talk to her. Making sure his kitchen ran smoothly meant he could let his memories of her be crowded out of his mind.

It wasn't really working, but he had to try. He'd almost choked a guy out and then knocked him on his ass just for touching her. If Michonne had already had enough pull over him that he was willing to sacrifice his restaurant…his dream…she also had the power to completely break him.

He shook that thought away because none of it mattered anymore. He hadn't heard from her in the two weeks since that night, so maybe she took him at his word about things being too complicated even though it had been a lie. The truth of the situation was that he hadn't been able to set aside his fear to completely let her in. Either way, it was yet another regret for him to add to an already lengthy list.

For now, he was going to focus completely on making sure his kitchen was perfect. He couldn't explain it, but for some reason the dining room was totally booked that night and there was an hour long waitlist for a table. Things were looking a bit dim for a minute there, but it had turned around and he was determined to do everything in his power to make sure it stayed that way.

He was putting the finishing touches on an order of Shrimp and Grits when Jesus appeared at the window.

"Boss, we got a VIP table out here you need to greet," he announced, causing Rick to roll his eyes but he didn't stop sprinkling green onions atop the dish.

"You can handle it and while you're at it, take this to table 15." When it was garnished to perfection, he sat the bowl on the bar, and pulled the next ticket. He wasn't in the mood to be the gracious, charming owner and chef. To be completely honest, he wasn't sure when he would be again.

Jesus sighed, letting his annoyance creep through. "I would but they asked for you specifically."

"Fine. Which table?" Rick threw his hand towel onto the counter in defeat. It was the part of the job he hated, but it had to be done. Besides, with the way things were going, it was shocking that anyone was requesting to see him.

"23," Jesus answered after retrieving the order from the window.

Rick's head spun around. "23? On the roof?"

Jesus nodded. "Last time I checked."

He groaned, "It's fucking November! It must be 40 degrees up there!"

The other man shrugged and backed out the door. "She wanted to sit outside and what's your motto, boss? The customer is always right?"

Rick glared at the man responsible for sending him up to the roof. "What's the rest of that, Jesus? The customer is always right except when they're wrong."

Jesus smiled and backed out of the kitchen. "I always forget that part."

Rick rubbed the back of his neck and after taking a moment to get his game face on, he headed up to the rooftop patio. It got colder with every step and he was kicking himself for not closing it after the Halloween party like he'd planned. New York winters were about the only thing that made him miss his little Georgia town.

It was just after sunset, and the strings of white lights they'd woven around the wooden trellis were on and twinkling like stars. The city skyline was beautiful from up there. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen that building for the restaurant.

He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth as he jogged up the last few steps. He wasn't looking forward to making inane small talk with the guest who was crazy enough to request a table outside on one of the first nights that you could actually see your breath.

He rounded the last corner and the sight that greeted him, stopped him in his tracks. Michonne. She was standing under the trellis wearing a long coat with her hair loose and falling down her back. She hadn't noticed him yet; and her attention was consumed by the the view of the city. She was so beautiful standing there that the sight of her removed any chill in the air. When she turned her head and saw him, her face exploded into the brilliant smile that he dreamed about every night and he forgot how to breathe.

"Hi Rick," she greeted; the sound of her voice kicking his brain back into gear. He took a few slow steps toward her and she did the same until the distance between them was almost closed.

"Michonne…what are you doing up here?"

She shrugged and tossed her hair over her shoulder, "I wanted to talk to you alone and the restaurant is kinda busy tonight."

He nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from her. "Yeah. It's the first time it's been like this since…"

"The review. I'm so sorry about that," she apologized.

"Don't be. I told you it wasn't your fault," he said. He didn't want her to be sorry because the truth was he'd do it all again, restaurant be dammed.

She looked up at him and he saw the twinkling lights reflected in her dark eyes. "I know, but this place is your dream so I couldn't let that review stand."

He couldn't tell her that she'd given him other things to dream about, so instead he asked, "What do you mean?"

Her lips twisted into a sly grin and her eyes sparkled with mirth. "There are perks to being a bestselling author, you know. I might have tweeted out a message about how much I love _The Blueprint_ in NYC to my followers."

He laughed, "That explains the rush of customers tonight."

"No. The glowing reviews in the Times, the Post, and the Food Network announcement about featuring _The Blueprint_ on the next episode of _City Eats_ is why this place is packed."

He blinked a few times as what she was telling him sank in and, when he finally processed it, his mouth fell open. "What?"

"Everything came out today. I know you don't follow that kind of thing and I asked Jesus not to tell you," she said, handing him a tablet and he dumbly swiped through the screens she had pulled up. His disbelief continued to grow as he read through the glowing reviews, as did another more earth shattering emotion he wasn't ready to put a name to.

"You did all this…for me?" He asked.

She shook her head and answered, "The hard work you put into this place did all this. I just made a few calls so people could come see for themselves."

Her words were like a bomb. This beautiful, amazing woman he'd been unable to completely open up to, had done for him what no one ever had and he was shell-shocked.

"Why? After everything that happened...why do you care about helping me?" He stuttered.

"Because I care about you. You may not believe in love, but you can't stop people from loving you, Rick; Whether you think you deserve it or not." She said it like it was the simplest thing in the world and just like that, the last brick in the wall surrounding his heart crumbled to dust.

He tried to form the right words to tell her how he felt about her; that he was already half in love with her and had been since well before their first and only date. That night, and that one kiss, only solidified that thing he already knew but refused to accept. That, aside from Carl, she was the only person in this screwed up world who gave him hope for the future.

He'd always been a man of action, so when his words failed him, he resorted to what he knew. With two purposeful steps, he moved close enough to cradle her gorgeous face in his hands. Her eyes were wide and glassy with tears but she was smiling at him and it made his heart feel impossibly lighter.

She covered his hands with hers and whispered, "I know you're scared. I am too. But I want to do this with you. I know it's going to take time, but I want to try. Are you with me?"

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers and released a sigh representing all of the hurt he'd been carrying around with him all his life. He was finally ready to let go of all of it and it was all because of the extraordinary woman in his arms.

"I'm with you," he agreed, and he'd never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

"Good," she whispered; the tip of her nose brushing against his before her warm breath tickled his lips. He didn't need any more encouragement to dip his head lower and capture her pillowy lips in a soft kiss. It was soft and moist; hot and breathy. Her hands fell to his waist as he worked his mouth against hers until a breathy moan slipped through her lips and she opened up to him. He kissed her in earnest then; hoping she felt everything he was having trouble saying. The heat rose in his cheeks as his tongue brushed hers; tentative at first, but still electric and delicious. It grew firmer and more determined, as they grew more addicted to the heat generated between them.

Even after the kiss ended, they stood in each other's embrace for a long time. The temperature was dropping but he didn't mind. With Michonne in his arms, he was warm through and through. The cold couldn't touch him anymore.

 **XXX**

 **One Year Later  
**  
It was Thanksgiving night and the restaurants on Azalea Street were filled with people looking for a good meal or those needing a stiff drink after surviving the day with their families. Every restaurant was open for business except for _The Blueprint_ , but it wasn't empty. It was the site of what Michonne hoped would become a yearly tradition.

A smile played on her lips as she looked at the faces of friends both new and old, gathered around the table. It had been her idea to host a Friendsgiving dinner after hearing so many people talk about not being able to make it home for the holiday that year. When she presented her idea to Rick, he'd offered up the lounge at _The Blueprint_ as the perfect location much to her delight.

A year ago, he'd been open just like all the other restaurants on that street, but so much had changed since then. They'd changed and grown together in so many ways. The attraction that had been there since the second they met, had blossomed into something neither of them expected but desperately needed and they fell more in love with one another everyday.

It hadn't always been easy, like the day they told his ex and her editor they were seeing each other. Lori took it well on the surface, but the number of red marks and notes on her manuscript did increase exponentially after that. Michonne couldn't even be mad about that though. Her book was quickly climbing the bestseller list so maybe Lori's pettiness had an unintended positive consequence.

After the book was done, Lori had moved on to another author, so the only time they had to interact was when it involved the son she shared with Rick. While Lori would never be a fixture at the Friendsgiving table, Michonne would always make sure they got along for Carl's sake because if there was anyone she loved as much as Rick, it was his son.

Said son was sitting across the table with his friend Duane, plotting out what they were going to pile onto their plates. Friendsgiving was a potluck, and the table was covered with too many delicious looking foods, and she was practically starving. All they were waiting for was Rick and Morgan with the turkey. Rick had decided to deep fry it and Morgan had insisted on supervising the whole thing. All day, their differing opinions on everything from seasoning the bird to the correct frying temperature could be heard throughout the restaurant. Now, they were the hold up and Michonne was hungry enough to go drag them both out of the kitchen.

"Dinner is served!" Rick announced as he and Morgan finally emerged from the kitchen carrying the turkey to a chorus of cheers. After placing the platter on the table, Rick brushed his lips against her temple as he took the seat next to her.

"Good timing. You were about to have a mutiny on your hands," she teased, drawing his attention completely to her and stealing her breath away just like he had the night when she'd hoped he was her blind date.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips and he wagered, "And I'm sure you would've been the one leading it. I know how you get when you're hungry."

Unable to deny it, she just giggled and watched as his grin turned into a full blown smile. He knew her entirely too well and she loved that about him; along with the hundreds of other things she absolutely loved about him.

Their banter would've kept going if Morgan hadn't tapped his glass and commanded everyone's attention.

"Now, it's a tradition where I come from that we go around the table and say what we're thankful for," Morgan explained, and his wife, Jenny, nodded her agreement.

The smile never left Michonne's face as she listened to their friends list off the things they were thankful for; laughing out loud when Carl submitted that he was thankful for the PlayStation 4 his dad had gotten him for his birthday a few months earlier.

Jenny caught her eye and nodded, "Alright, your turn Michonne. What are you thankful for?"

Her mind went blank as she tried to reduce to a sentence or two, all of the things she thanked God for every day. She glanced over at Rick who was staring back at her, grinning, with a far away haze in his gorgeous eyes.

"I'm thankful for the string of bad blind dates that led me to you," she laughed, and his grin grew even wider until his whole face lit up.

Tyreese huffed, "I'm not thankful for those dates! Watching him pretending not to be jealous was a nightmare!"

Rick's cheeks reddened as the rest of the table fell into a fit of laughter. "I was in love with her even then. I just didn't know it," he defended, and that just made anyone who was around him during that time laugh even harder.

"What about you, Rick? What are you thankful for?" Michonne asked, trying to get them back on track so they could eat. Though entertaining, the "Rick Roast" could happen another time when they weren't all so hungry.

A blush warmed her cheeks when his hand covertly found its way under the table to rest on the invisible swell of her stomach. It was new; so new that she was still wrapping her head around the idea but Rick hadn't stopped smiling since he'd seen those two pink lines appear on the test that morning. In a year filled with blessings,Thanksgiving Day gave them yet another thing to be thankful for.

She covered his hand with hers and played with the ring she'd slipped on his finger in a private ceremony at city hall less than two months earlier. He'd only proposed a few weeks before but like everything with Rick, once he was in, he was all in and he didn't see the point in a long engagement when he already thought of her as his wife. Neither of them wanted the production of a huge wedding, so they chose to just to have Carl, Sasha, and Morgan in attendance on the Friday morning they promised their lives to each other.

She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, reminding him of their agreement to keep their latest news to themselves for a little while longer. He laughed to himself, and lifted her hand up to his lips before clutching it over his heart. He just held it there while he stared at her; his eyes exuding everything she'd ever wanted in a partner; love, protection, safety, patience, and respect. It hadn't happened exactly the way she'd expected it to, but she was happier than she'd ever dreamed she'd be.

She wondered if everything she saw in his eyes was reflected right back at him in her own.

Her question was answered when he sighed and said, "I'm just thankful for you."

 **The End**

 **Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!**


End file.
